


clipped wings, i was a broken thing

by humanveil



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-07-27 05:03:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16211975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanveil/pseuds/humanveil
Summary: Hannibal is caged. The world keeps turning.





	clipped wings, i was a broken thing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dexstarr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dexstarr/gifts).



> dexstarr, i loved your prompts and i really hope you enjoy this! title taken from bird set free by sia.

She leaves Florence the same way she came: quietly, inconspicuously. She is a body lighter but, perhaps, that makes it easier.

A flight attendant asks if she’d like a drink and this time, Bedelia takes one. And then another.

The view from the window is an endless span of nothingness, a black so dark her own reflection stares back at her. Eyes blank, unblinking.

She thinks, _how fitting._

\--

There are reporters who wait for her, watch after her. Some more annoying than others. All are too eager to understand madness; to immerse themselves in the gritty nature of humankind, to know the ins and outs. Like they want it to swallow them whole.

Bedelia thinks, _one day they might realise their mistake._

She locks the door and closes the curtains. Speaks to no one, not yet. The knowledge, these secrets, her time behind the veil—it will come out later, she’s sure, but for now she keeps the truth close to her heart. Waits for it to become advantageous.

She does not see the figure that lingers: a silent shadow, hidden up high.

_Observing._

\--

Hannibal is caged and the world keeps turning. It shouldn’t be surprising.

The night he is declared criminally insane, Bedelia returns home to find her front door unlocked, a flickering light she hadn’t left on visible through the fold of her curtains. Fear is absent, and that fact alone could almost make her laugh—the knowledge that she is this jaded, this experienced in the face of danger. She enters her home and fights the strange sensation of déjà vu, the hollow echo of her heels hitting the floorboards impossibly loud as she walks down the hall.

Chiyoh sits in her living area, still and impassive, her figure illuminated by the glow of a table-side lamp. It should be surprising.

There is a bottle of wine in her hand and she lifts it, places it on a mantle and listens to the clink of glass against wood; aware of how closely Chiyoh is watching her.

“Hello,” she says. Her voice is quiet, equally impassive.

Chiyoh blinks. “You aren’t surprised,” she says, a statement, not a question. Tainted by a simmering hint of curiosity. Wonder.

Bedelia thinks, _if you want a reaction, you’ll have to earn it_. What she says is, “The unbound often wander.”

She steps further into the room, elegant fingers reaching for the glass she keeps ready. The wine she pours is a deep red, almost black in the dim light. It stains her lips like blood.

Later, Chiyoh will kiss her as if there were a chance it could wash them clean.

\--

Later still, Chiyoh will disappear the same way she came: without warning.

Bedelia will wake in an empty bed, nothing but memories of stuttered breaths and shuddering bodies left behind; her sheets still warm in a stubborn reminder of inhabitation.

\--

The world keeps turning.

Bedelia never does give Freddie Lounds her tell-all article. Instead, she talks. Lectures. Tells stories of her life as Lydia Fell, gives pieces of herself to strangers: every story never a whole truth, but still a truth. Still _something._

People listen, interact. The sentiment too often the same.

\--

_Poor Dr. Du Maurier..._

\--

She dreams of bathing. Imagines herself immersed in the depths, water warm and soothing. A vintage basin, spacious and comfortable. Soap expensive and divine. She sees foggy mirrors and coils of steam, sees fat drops of water leak from a faucet, each falling to create ripples that wade their way to her chin.

There are times where she feels the phantom touch of fingers in her hair. Those nights, she dreams of the water running red with blood.

\--

When it comes, Chiyoh’s presence in her lecture hall is not a surprise.

Bedelia spots her early, hidden amongst the crowd. She stands at the back, near the door, her eyes never leaving Bedelia as she paces the room and tells tale after tale.

Afterwards, Bedelia approaches her, says, “Hello, again,” like it is normal, like it is expected.

And in a way, it is. She’s been waiting for this; had sensed it coming. She’s seen Chiyoh watching her, following her: a constant in the shadows, an unconventional guardian. Collision is inevitable.

There’s something to be said about old habits.

Chiyoh stays silent, but they leave together—an unspoken agreement, a silent understanding.

This encounter is much like the last: an intimacy born from mutual fascination. When they touch each other, it’s as if they are mapping out bodies like they’re minds—delving into the deepest parts, aching to know, learn, _understand_. Chiyoh comes with a silent cry, her body arching up into Bedelia’s, her eyes open and wide, and it feels like a triumph. Sounds like a victory.

When it’s over, Chiyoh says, “I want to stay.”

She lies on her back, gaze trained on the ceiling and sheets pooled around her waist. Bedelia shifts against her pillow, rolls her head to look, reaches a hand out to touch, her fingers brushing through silky strands of hair in an uncharacteristically gentle gesture.

“So stay,” she says, and thinks, _if only it were that easy_.

Still. Chiyoh stays, and in her own way, she continues to stay. Their rendezvous increasing in volume, until it’s habit, until it’s routine. Together, they manage to build a semblance of peace. A life together.

Bedelia thinks, _if only it could last._

\--

She still dreams of bloodied water, only now she’s drowning in it. Drinking it. The fate inescapable, even in her own imagination.

She wonders what that says about herself.

\--

As expected, their semblance of peace is shattered in due time.

Will Graham taunts her with thinly veiled comminations, and her hand shakes as she reaches for the whiskey.

She thinks, _so much for the absence of fear._

There’s something to be said about the effects of time and distance. Of the way it warps experience.

\--

_Who holds the Devil..._

\--

The news of Hannibal’s escape spreads quickly.

Chiyoh appears at her door some time after the announcement. She stands against the backdrop of a rising sun, the sky above a marbled mess of black and blue and pink and orange. There is blood on her collar, the dark fabric damp with it. Bedelia recognises the smell more than the sight. Can’t help but notice the strands of hair that sit out of place—disarrayed, by normal standards.

She tilts her head in a minuscule act, says, “You’ve seen him.”

No need to label _him_. No need to make it a question. They both know—perhaps too well.

“Yes,” Chiyoh answers anyway. Bedelia steps back and she steps forward, lets the door shut behind her. Listens as the lock falls in place. She follows Bedelia through the hall, to a kitchen, adds, “He is injured. We have time.”

Bedelia stops at her counter, turns to make eye contact. “Time?”

Chiyoh nods. “To take you somewhere safe.”

Bedelia’s mouth twitches, humourless. She is well aware that safety is little more than an illusion.

She goes anyway.

\--

It would be witless to target her first, Bedelia thinks, so yes, they do have time. How much, she can’t say. Isn’t entirely sure she wishes to know.

She lies awake that night, Chiyoh’s body resting beside her own: asleep and silent. Bedelia watches her, ponders questions of fidelity as she listens to the odd sigh of Chiyoh’s snores, the pad of her fingers ghosting over a soft expanse smooth skin.

She wonders if, perhaps, Chiyoh is merely biding time. If she’ll turn her to Hannibal at a later date. Loyalty, after all, is a very strange force, and Bedelia is no fool.

Chiyoh shifts in her sleep, mouth inching closer to the jut of Bedelia’s shoulder, her breath warm, wet against the skin; a picture perfect scene of tranquility.

Bedelia thinks, _I wonder if I’ll mind._

  


**Author's Note:**

> comments & kudos = ♡♡♡
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/irnstrk) / [tumblr](http://humanveil.tumblr.com/)


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